The-Return-of-Sherlock-Holmes

will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed
in his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but
that the case broke down on an alibi. Yesterday a lady, who has
been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in
the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her
servants as being insane. An examination showed she had
indeed developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On
inquiry, the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye
only returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and
there is evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster. A
comparison of photographs has proved conclusively that M.
Henri Fournaye and Eduardo Lucas were really one and the
same person, and that the deceased had for some reason lived a
double life in London and Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of
Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable nature, and has
suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy which have
amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it was in one of these
that she committed the terrible crime which has caused such a
sensation in London. Her movements upon the Monday night
have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a woman
answering to her description attracted much attention at Charing
Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours
upon Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud to him,
while he finished his breakfast.

“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up and down
the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have told you nothing in the last
three days, it is because there is nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris
does not help us much.”

“Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

“The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in comparison with
our real task, which is to trace this document and save a European catastrophe.
Only one important thing has happened in the last three days, and that is that
nothing has happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it is
certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble. Now, if this letter
were loose—no, it can’t be loose—but if it isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has
it? Why is it held back? That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer.
Was it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the night when
the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him? If so, why is it not among
his papers? Did this mad wife of his carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house
in Paris? How could I search for it without the French police having their
suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law is as dangerous
to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is against us, and yet the interests at
stake are colossal. Should I bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly
represent the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!”
He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in. “Halloa! Lestrade
seems to have observed something of interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we
will stroll down together to Westminster.”

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy, narrow-chested
house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which gave it birth. Lestrade’s
bulldog features gazed out at us from the front window, and he greeted us
warmly when a big constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into
which we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but no
trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet
was a small square drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad
expanse of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly
polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of which
had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a sumptuous writing-desk,
and every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all
pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt it’s just
as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise visit, I guess, for he kept his life
in water-tight compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to another, and
then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn’t all done in an
instant, though, for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one in

his hand as if he had tried to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we
had seen it.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“And yet you have sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of thing you take an
interest in—queer, you know, and what you might call freakish. It has nothing to
do with the main fact—can’t have, on the face of it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to keep things
in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer in charge here day and night.
This morning, as the man was buried and the investigation over—so far as this
room is concerned—we thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is
not fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it. We found
——”

“Yes? You found——”

Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did find.
You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have soaked through,
must it not?”

“Undoubtedly it must.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the white
woodwork to correspond.”

“No stain! But there must——”

“Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he showed
that it was indeed as he said.

“But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left a mark.”

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.

“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There is a second stain, but it does not
correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As he spoke he turned over another
portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the
square white facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the carpet has
been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it was easily done.”

“The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that the carpet
must have been turned round. That’s clear enough, for the stains lie above each
other—if you lay it over this way. But what I want to know is, who shifted the
carpet, and why?”

I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with inward
excitement.

“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the passage been in
charge of the place all the time?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before us. We’ll
wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be more likely to get a
confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to admit people and leave
them alone in this room. Don’t ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell
him you know someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full confession
is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I tell you!”

“By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade. He darted
into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying voice sounded from the back
room.

“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst out in a
paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the floor, and in an instant was
down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it.
One turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like
the lid of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged his
eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment.
It was empty.

“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was replaced, and
the drugget had only just been drawn straight when Lestrade’s voice was heard
in the passage. He found Holmes leaning languidly against the mantelpiece,
resigned and patient, endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are bored to death
with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all right. Come in here,
MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable conduct.”

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door last
evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking. It’s lonesome,

when you’re on duty here all day.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in the
papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young woman, sir, and
I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she saw that mark on the carpet,
down she dropped on the floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and
got some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the corner to the
Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had brought it back the young
woman had recovered and was off—ashamed of herself, I daresay, and dared not
face me.”

“How about moving that drugget?”

“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You see, she fell
on it and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep it in place. I straightened
it out afterwards.”

“It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable MacPherson,” said
Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought that your breach of duty could
never be discovered, and yet a mere glance at that drugget was enough to
convince me that someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my
man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer Street. I’m
sorry to have called you down over such a petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I
thought the point of the second stain not corresponding with the first would
interest you.”

“Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here once,
constable?”

“Yes, sir, only once.”

“Who was she?”

“Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about typewriting
and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel young woman, sir.”

“Tall? Handsome?”

“Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say she
was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very handsome. ‘Oh, officer,
do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say,
and I thought there was no harm in letting her just put her head through the
door.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.”

“What time was it?”

“It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the lamps as I came
back with the brandy.”

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have more
important work elsewhere.”

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while the repentant
constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes turned on the step and held up
something in his hand. The constable stared intently.

“Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes put his finger
on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast pocket, and burst out laughing as we
turned down the street. “Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain
rings up for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be no war,
that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no setback in his brilliant
career, that the indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for his
indiscretion, that the Prime Minister will have no European complication to deal
with, and that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will be a
penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly incident.”

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

“You have solved it!” I cried.

“Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as ever. But we
have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot get the rest. We will go
straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the matter to a head.”

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was for Lady
Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were shown into the
morning-room.

“Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her indignation.
“This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your part. I desired, as I have
explained, to keep my visit to you a secret, lest my husband should think that I
was intruding into his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and
so showing that there are business relations between us.”

“Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must therefore ask
you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands.”

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant from her
beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I thought that she would faint.
Then with a grand effort she rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment

and indignation chased every other expression from her features.

“You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

She darted to the bell.

“The butler shall show you out.”

“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts to avoid a
scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all will be set right. If you will
work with me I can arrange everything. If you work against me I must expose
you.”

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his as if she
would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she had forborne to ring
it.

“You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr. Holmes, to
come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know something. What is it
that you know?”

“Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall. I will not
speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

“I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of your
giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room last night, and of
the manner in which you took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could speak.

“You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face of a
woman cut out of a portrait.

“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said he. “The
policeman has recognized it.”

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be adjusted. I
have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when I have returned the
lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be frank with me. It is your only
chance.”

Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion.”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I can see that it
is all in vain.”

He rang the bell. The butler entered.

“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

Holmes glanced at his watch.

“Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda was down
on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched, her beautiful face
upturned and wet with her tears.

“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so! I would not bring
one shadow on his life, and this I know would break his noble heart.”

Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come to your
senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant to lose. Where is the
letter?”

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long blue
envelope.

“Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

“How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must think of
some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

“Still in his bedroom.”

“What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment later she had
appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

“How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course you
have. Open it!”

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box flew open.
It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep down into the
heart of them, between the leaves of some other document. The box was shut,
locked, and returned to the bedroom.

“Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten minutes. I am
going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you will spend the time in telling
me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary affair.”

“Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I
would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of sorrow! There is no

woman in all London who loves her husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I
have acted—how I have been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For
his own honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse in
another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our very lives are
at stake!”

“Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

“It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter written before my
marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm,
and yet he would have thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence
would have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had thought that
the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man, Lucas, that it
had passed into his hands, and that he would lay it before my husband. I
implored his mercy. He said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a
certain document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He assured me that no
harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr. Holmes! What
was I to do?”

“Take your husband into your confidence.”

“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed certain ruin, on
the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband’s paper, still in a matter of
politics I could not understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and
trust they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an impression of
his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took
the paper, and conveyed it to Godolphin Street.”

“What happened there, madam?”

“I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him into his room,
leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone with the man. I
remember that there was a woman outside as I entered. Our business was soon
done. He had my letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were steps in the
passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget, thrust the document into some
hiding-place there, and covered it over.

“What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a vision of a
dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which screamed in French, ‘My waiting
is not in vain. At last, at last I have found you with her!’ There was a savage
struggle. I saw him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next morning in the paper

did I learn the dreadful result. That night I was happy, for I had my letter, and I
had not seen yet what the future would bring.

“It was the next morning that I realized that I had only exchanged one trouble
for another. My husband’s anguish at the loss of his paper went to my heart. I
could hardly prevent myself from there and then kneeling down at his feet and
telling him what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the past.
I came to you that morning in order to understand the full enormity of my
offence. From the instant that I grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one
thought of getting back my husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had
placed it, for it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If it
had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his hiding-place
was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I watched the place, but the
door was never left open. Last night I made a last attempt. What I did and how I
succeeded, you have already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and
thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon the stair!”

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news, Mr.
Holmes, any news?” he cried.

“I have some hopes.”

“Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister is
lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of steel, and yet I
know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the
Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics.
We will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam of his
eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the excitement of his
young colleague.

“I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

“Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at every point
where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger to be apprehended.”

“But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on such a
volcano. We must have something definite.”

“I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think of the
matter the more convinced I am that the letter has never left this house.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

“But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

“I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

“Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

“I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance that it left
the box.”

“Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

“No. It was not necessary.”

“You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

“Impossible, I say.”

“But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to happen. I presume
there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed with them.”

“It was on the top.”

“Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

“No, no, I had everything out.”

“Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us have the
despatch-box brought in.”

The Secretary rang the bell.

“Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of time, but
still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it
here. I have always had the key on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you
see. Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum
from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note
from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord
Bellinger!”

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

“Yes, it is it—and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you.”

“Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer! How did
you know it was there?”

“Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is my wife? I
must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

“Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye. How came the
letter back in the box?”

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful eyes.
“We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up his hat, he
turned to the door.

THE END

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